


raise hell and turn it up

by sungchanery



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Body Horror, Clubbing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, M/M, Monsters, Supernatural Elements, Tentacles, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27125371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungchanery/pseuds/sungchanery
Summary: "You look sinful,” Johnny doesn’t manage to catch his tongue before his thoughts spill from him out loud, and Yuta chuckles devilishly, sending chills down Johnny’s spine, an impossible amount of blood rushing south.“I did promise you Hell,” Yuta sneers, and it’s the last thing Johnny hears him say before his own scream pierces through the air.Or, Johnny gets threatened, but not with a good time.
Relationships: Nakamoto Yuta/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 22
Kudos: 42
Collections: Challenge #2 — tricks; treats; and terrors





	raise hell and turn it up

**Author's Note:**

> hello there, happy spoopy month :D
> 
> i love spooktober, but i love a little wonder more, because it gave me the chance to get out of my comfort zone and write something like this. i treasure this fic a lot, and i hope it spooks yall a lil bit :D thank u, a little wonder, u own my ass! happy halloween!
> 
> a special thanks to mari and eleni for betaing the heck out of this and to everyone else who hyped me up when i was hella insecure(lua im looking at u)! i love yall! <3
> 
> now, for the WARNINGS — there IS violence, even though it's not entirely graphic, so proceed with caution. there is some monster man eating action as well so if that's not ur cup of tea, then i would suggest u be careful! 
> 
> i hope u enjoy :D

Getting completely smashed after your boyfriend of two years leaves both you _and_ your shared apartment behind, taking the coffee machine with him and never coming back, is common sense. Right? 

That's what Johnny thinks, at least.

His bad-at-being-a-good-friend-but-still-trying-nonetheless best buddy Donghyuck, undoubtedly agrees. 

_“Are you even close to being ready? Because I know I’m not,”_ Donghyuck provides when Johnny, only needing to put on his suede, most certainly not thrifted for ten bucks jacket and head out, asks him when he plans on picking them up. He doesn't need the insight, really, because he can very well see that Donghyuck is still in his (well _,_ very much not _his_ ,) home clothes. 

Lee Donghyuck being late is no surprise, really, but Johnny couldn’t keep himself waiting in bed any longer or else their pub crawl would become a dream of the past. Lately, the unforgiving starkness of his ceiling has turned into a projection screen for his traitor projector of a brain to play every memory of him and Doyoung on repeat, somehow choosing all the unbearably sappy ones to torture him with and make his eyes go blurry with tears in record time.

Johnny, dramatic and romantic to the bone, indulges in this cinematic, self imposed punishment and takes crying like a champ; snotty nose, red rimmed eyes, salty pillow stains and all. And after said pillow is uncomfortably damp, he trades it for the single fancy wine glass he keeps in his cupboard, tears mixing with his Trader Joe’s discount wine, and that’s where he draws the line and finally moves his ass off the bed to get ready. A whole two hours earlier than planned. 

“Will you take long? Come on, Donghyuck, man, you _promised,_ ” he groans, but his attempt to guilt trip his friend into getting ready faster is in vain. Donghyuck probably can’t even hear him, his phone, videocall still going, discarded somewhere in between his cheeto dust stained comforter and his one week old sheets that Johnny can still recognize from the last time he was there, semi tucked in his bed. 

* * *

Impatience drives him into spending a precious 10$ on an Uber ride instead of more alcohol, riding on the urgency of the need to have it enter his system as soon as possible, and hopefully replace the oppressive buzzing in his head with a far more pleasant one. That's how he ends up at the bar by himself, no Donghyuck in sight yet. The bartender, shrewd as ever, pours one more shot of white rum in his mojito after one fast, appraising glance at Johnny’s face, and who is Johnny to complain? If pity gets him drunk faster, he’ll take it. 

One mojito and two terrible tequila shots in, Donghyuck appears, one really handsome Jung Jaehyun at his side, and Johnny can now see what kept his (really, _objectively_ bad) friend from being on time. 

“Ready to get wasted? I’m paying,” Donghyuck slaps twenty dollars on the sticky bar, earning a glare from the ladies next to them. In true Donghyuck fashion, he doesn’t pay them any attention as he very nearly shouts his order in the bartender’s ear. A round of shots and sweet, cold vodka cranberry — courtesy of Jaehyun, because Donghyuck suddenly and predictably runs out of money — burn his throat, and Johnny starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be okay after all. At least in this loud room, packed with intoxicated strangers, everything feels _good._ Feels _euphoric._ Feels _right._

Drinking and dancing have always helped him let loose, and this is no exception. Johnny, body swaying to the beat, is sandwiched between his two friends, who are making a remarkable effort to drunkenly kiss over his shoulder. They are failing spectacularly because let’s face it, Johnny’s flailing, beanstalk body between them is not exactly conducive to them sucking face. He eventually gets the memo, (but only after being selfish enough to dance through Britney Spears’s Toxic and Beyonce’s Formation without a care in the world,) and lets the crowd take him. 

He feels hands on himself, the bodies of strangers equally lost in the moment moving against him — but there’s a certain pair of hands that grips on his hips that doesn’t feel fleeting. 

“I love this song,” a man, Johnny presumes, whispers close to his ear, making the hair on the back of his neck rise. It reminds him of a feline purr, the way he speaks, and Johnny hasn’t seen the man’s face, but he really, _really_ wants to, so he turns around in his arms, and oh–

This is not what he was expecting, yet what he lays his eyes on still somehow makes so much sense it makes Johnny’s head spin. 

Red hair held back with bedazzled bobby pins, glitter-covered eyelids, and is that a nose stud? It must be. The little diamond catches the club lights and, in Johnny’s unfocused eyes, it looks like a star. The man smirks under the weight of Johnny’s stare and it sends a wave of excitement through his stupid, uncoordinated, alcohol-adled body. 

“Shakira really makes your hips move,” his voice comes out steadier than he expects, surprising him as the man’s hands get more comfortable on his waist and Johnny’s own gingerly come to rest on the man's mesh covered shoulders. It feels good under his fingers, burning hot, and Johnny came here tonight with the goal of setting his old self alight and rising from its miserable, dumpee ashes, so it feels quite appropriate. Inappropriately so. 

“Yeah, no lie,” the hot stranger laughs and Johnny almost gasps. Surely the constitution must include an article or twenty deeming that grin illegal. 

No other words are needed, not when the beat is deafening and the man’s lips are scorching on Johnny’s jugular, leaving behind sticky lip gloss that Johnny craves to taste. A cursory glance across the dancefloor reveals that Donghyuck and Jaehyun are nowhere to be seen but Johnny can’t find it in himself to care. 

His perception of time becomes warped as all hell, so it could be hours, or minutes, or months later, that Johnny gets pulled towards the bar by the handsome man and is handed some kind of cocktail that leaves condensation on his fingers and a sickeningly saccharine taste on his tongue. 

“I never asked for your name,” says Johnny, wrapping his lips around his swirly straw again, not wanting to miss a single drop of the alcohol, the magic potion that can kick every Doyoung related thought from his lovesick head, banish him to the depths of Hell forever.

“I’m Yuta. Nakamoto,” Yuta mouths against his own cocktail glass, pointed tongue gathering stray drops of vodka clinging to the rim. _Pointed?_ Johnny blinks, trying to check if he saw right, and loses that train of thought when Yuta leans in to steal the straw from his mouth and taste the concoction for himself. “Hm, good choice. Here, try this.” 

He swaps their drinks, satisfied, and Johnny, laid back, high on sugar, rum, and Yuta’s mesmerising physique, lets him and wraps his lips around the rim of the glass for a taste of Yuta’s half finished drink instead. He doesn’t realise Yuta hasn’t asked for his name.

His lips sting when they meet the place Yuta was drinking from; he winces, not even a whole sip in, but Yuta has already downed his cocktail in one go, so Johnny feels some kind of unjustified urgency to do the same, aching lip be damned. The empty glass gets replaced with a brand new one, something green and radioactive-looking mixing with melted ice in it, and if it ends up down his throat along with a bunch of equally neon colored shots, it’s Johnny’s business and his alone. 

All other thoughts fly from his head when something wet and sizzling wraps around his wrist, promises of “sex from hell” whispered in his ear as he leaves the bar behind. 

It’s all a blur; the car ride to Yuta’s place, the trail of discarded clothes leading to Yuta's bedroom, the unusual but so, _so_ delicious burn of his tongue on Johnny’s own; his bare back hitting the mattress. It’s dark, and Johnny’s eyes have trouble adjusting.

All he can see in front of him is Yuta’s slender body, silhouetted by the red fluorescent light bleeding in from the hallway, and he looks _otherworldly._ If pure, unadulterated _sin_ could take one single corporeal form, it would be _him._ Yuta Nakamoto, naked right in front of a disheveled, achingly hard Johnny, hellfire light framing him like an unholy halo, standing there as if he just crawled out from the depths of Hell to lure him into eternal damnation. 

“You look _sinful,_ ” Johnny doesn’t manage to catch his tongue before his thoughts spill from him out loud, and Yuta chuckles devilishly, sending chills down Johnny’s spine, an impossible amount of blood rushing south. 

“I did promise you Hell,” Yuta sneers, and it’s the last thing Johnny hears him say before his own scream pierces through the air.

* * *

Tentacles, that’s what it was. 

That’s what Johnny thought he had seen, circling his wrist, slipping under his clothes when everyone on the dancefloor was too close to really tell skin, clothes, _tendrils_ apart, when he thought that the alcohol was playing tricks on him, warping reality into something that Johnny’s mind couldn’t really process. 

That’s what Johnny sees right now, forcefully sobered up by blistering pain, Yuta’s black, treacle-esque tentacles running over his body, securing a vice-like grip on his joints he can’t shake off despite his squirming. Screaming does nothing but leave his throat dry; there is no one around to hear him, nobody to help, or as much as bat an eye as Johnny’s flesh gives in under the scalding venom. 

“Yuta– please– fuck, please let _go_ ,” he begs, pleads, but it falls on deaf ears. Hell, it falls on no ears at all, Yuta’s face morphing into something that Johnny has never seen before in his life, something that the entire supernatural media genre could have never prepared him for.

Rows of teeth, viciously sharp and dripping poison appear when Yu– _it,_ opens its mouth; when the front of the creature’s head, where Yuta’s face was, gets separated from his jaw like a supermundane trapdoor, exposing what Yuta promised him, really, without a single sliver of exaggeration. _Hell itself_. 

Johnny’s eyes, wide as saucers, can’t look anywhere else, frightened gaze locked on the monster threatening his life. And yet, blindly, instinctively, his hand feels across the bed and wraps around something — a bedside lamp, tall, intricately designed to fit the decor Johnny gave no shit about twenty minutes ago but is very, _very_ thankful of now. With all the strength he has left, he swings it at the demon in a desperate attempt to stun it into loosening the deathly grip of his tentacles on his skin. It works _,_ god, it _works;_ the monster that once was Yuta lets out a shrill screech, its appendages flailing in the air, leaving space for Johnny to run like his life depends on it. 

And it does. Every step he takes away from that accursed bedroom earns him precious, painless seconds of having his flesh attached to his bones, of staying intact, _alive._

They’re short lived, those seconds. 

He makes it to the front door, tripping over his forgotten jeans; the points where his skin melted off send shocks of pain through his whole body with every stomp on the hardwood, but he’s high on adrenaline, overriding it all, moving forward to his escape. One more step. His hand on the door handle. 

The squelching of Yuta’s tentacles sticking to the floor as he slithers, looming. Loud. Close. 

_Closer._

Molasses-like tentacles wrap around him, melting through and touching bone, and what’s left of Johnny’s skin burns as he’s dragged across the carpet. The door once within his reach leaves his sight. Realisation dawns. This is it. He wills his eyes shut, letting go; letting himself be pulled to his demise. 

When he peels them open seconds later, he’s in the bedroom again. This time, he is the one with his back to the open door, red light casting its devilish glow right onto Yuta. Right onto what Yuta has become; alien, lethal. What Johnny once thought was _unreal_ is baring his very much _real_ and still very much lethal fangs at him, holding his body up with sturdy tentacles like he weighs nothing. Behind his back, he can vividly picture the devil’s den; the gates that Johnny envisioned welcoming Yuta into the human realm before, are now wide open, awaiting his descent, flames prodding, ready to swallow him whole.

Yuta is fast. It’s like a flash — Yuta’s limb transforms in the blink of an eye, blunt end turning into a spear that rips through Johnny’s chest, meeting no resistance, human flesh like butter against its sharp edge. There is blood; there is silence; with Johnny’s breath slowly fading away, Yuta’s own, ragged one is almost deafening. 

In the split second he has left, instead of raging fire, it’s rancid venom and _teeth,_ hundreds of razor-sharp teeth, that usher him into Hell instead. 

* * *

  
  
_The flashing lights of the club can be blinding, but nothing beats the sun, rays creeping through the blinds and falling right on its face, pulling a groan out of it as it is mercilessly woken up. Its head is pounding but it feels alive, as if something changed during the night, the brand new day bringing a brand new side of it to the surface._

_Getting up feels like a chore and its stomach growls, something nasty threatening its way up its throat. It rushes to the closest trash can it can find, hurling the contents of its guts, its body expelling everything that made it sick first thing in the morning. Something heavy lands in there, among the candy bar wrappers and sticky condoms; something round, bloody, dangerously skull-like. It pays no attention, doesn’t spare the bin another glance as it moves to the bathroom to see what the night has brought forth this time._

_The red is gone. The piercings are gone as well, and on top of its head sits an unforgiving, honey colored bird’s nest of a bedhead. The sharp edges have given way to rounded cheeks, the slender body it once occupied replaced with long,_ long _limbs for days. It–_ he _, this time around, looks good._ Really _good, a surge of pride coursing through him for a single second before he lets it go and turns around to take a piss._

_(When he looks down, he likes what he sees. He can’t help yet another prideful wave that overtakes him.)_

_A tentacle wraps itself around a t-shirt as he’s cleaning up the mess in his living room, still not used to keeping up the newly acquired form. He schools it back into shape, until it’s five long fingers holding the wrinkled garment instead. He fishes everything that he might need out of every pocket; phone, condoms, wallet. An ID is peeking from under the worn out leather and he plucks it out, anticipation bubbling in his gut for a new identity, a new name to match to the face._

_It's a feeling that will never leave him no matter how many times he has and will do this._

_“Hm. Johnny Seo. 25,” he grins as his eyes scan over the ID card, lingering on the picture, obligatorily stern and impersonal. “Sounds like a good time.”_

  
  



End file.
